


On Writing Appropriate Dialogue

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen hasn't killed Harold Crick. She doesn't want to kill anyone else, but she does want to write a novel. Written for kink bingo prompt "dirty talk". Contains smoking addiction, reference to writers block, discussion of prostitution and murder mysteries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Writing Appropriate Dialogue

Karen did continue writing. At first she was uncertain, how many others like Harold were there? How many perfectly good people had she killed? It was an almost unbearable guilt that snuck up on her in the dark and left her shivering from nightmares. So she resolved not to write. But that was the thing with writers block, you struggle for a year with how to kill a man, then you don't and a world of opportunity rises before you. She'll write no more of Harold Krik, but her fingers itch for a pencil and notepad more strongly than she desires a cigarette. She hasn't stopped smoking, but she's cut back. Only now it doesn't really matter, because if she can't write, smoking’s the next best option.

Penny disagrees. Karen isn't entirely sure why Penny's still here. The woman is nightmarishly persistent. She's not Karen's friend, but she's been through this whole ordeal with Karen, the shock and horror of almost killing a living, breathing man, character or no. Penny understands that. She was almost an accomplice to it. Penny also disapproves of smoking, but if the writing itch won't go away, chain-smoking it is. It keeps Karen's hands, and mind, occupied with ducking Penny's stern glare and hiding behind the potted trees on the stoop to light up. It is ridiculous. And of course Penny knows. She comes outside with her pack of nicotine patches and a warm cardigan. She coaxes Karen out of the bushes, or small potted trees, whatever they are, and lures her out to dinner with the promise of steak tartar and good conversation. 

Karen's happy to go. Anything to ignore stories waiting to be told. Yesterday Karen woke up in the middle of the night, mind full of a girl with adorable pigtails arguing with her brother, perhaps a murder. Karen's never written a murder mystery before. Now the thought makes her nauseous.  
"So." Penny says, folding her napkin neatly across her lap. "The publisher asked when your next book would be." Her smile is kind, the words casual, no push behind them, just easy curiosity.  
"I can't." Karen says. It's simple. She has no right to control another human being. Karen will not play god, not now she knows. She just can't. "I can't hurt anyone else."  
"You wrote Harold a happy ending." Penny points out. They order, or Penny does because Karen is staring at the straw wrapper her fingers are idly picking appart.  
"It was a good story, but I can't just write happy flowers everywhere. That's never been why people buy my books." Karen protests.  
Penny shrugs, "You're a brilliant author." Karen smiles at the warmth of that for a minute. Penny nods, "I asked for you, you know. They told me they had a trouble case, incurable writers block, all those years stalled on a book. I'm who they send when they're about to give up, but I knew when I read the first page. I wanted to work with you." Penny leans over the table, edging into Karen's space. Her eyes are imploringly honest. "People will buy what you write because it's you and you could probably write about doing the laundry and make it interesting." Penny leans back, "I think you're under estimating yourself. I think you could still write amazing stories without anyone dying."  
"Maybe," Karen mutters, dropping her eyes, "But someone would still get hurt. Stories are about conflict. Perfection, walking on sunlit beaches, those aren't the stories I want to tell."

Karen's glad when the food arrives, it gives her an excuse to ignore Penny. The steak is good, Karen's knife rips it to bloody stripes. Perhaps she stabs with her fork a little more violently then necessary, but when her eyes slide to Penny's face, the other woman's only reaction is a slight curve of smile. Karen continues to chew enthusiastically. It is a very good steak. Penny is eating a salad. It has croutons and fancy cheese. Some of the lettuce leaves look more like lace than lettuce. Penny eats small bites. She chews meticulously. She sets her fork down against her plate and rests her fingertips lightly against the table between bites. Karen looks at her last bit of mangled steak and sighs.  
"I appreciate your conviction in my ability to write, but I do not wish to play god. In fact, I find the idea absolutely terrifying. I think I'm going to retire." She pushes her bloody plate away.  
"But you love writing," Penny's voice is quiet. Startled Karen looks at her.  
"True. I do love writing, but I think it's best that I don't publish. Harold’s story didn't become reality until I typed out the manuscript. Do you know, I thought about editing the ending, rewriting it to the original. I would keep the masterpiece and save the man. But, well, if it didn't work, if somehow I revised his life in the editing process… Can you imagine, being happy one moment and then dead the next, unaware of the beautiful life you'd had?" Karen shakes her head, "I couldn't do it to him and I certainly can't do it again."  
"What if you wrote about someone who already exists?" Penny asks. Her eyes are serious when they hold Karen's gaze, "If you wrote about someone you know you might not have power over them. Or you could write about things that have happened. If it's already true, how would writing it down change it?" Karen mulls that over a bit, tapping her fork absently against the table.  
"Perhaps, but then it wouldn't be my story. I write what I write for a reason. I have to be able to see it. Writing down a story someone's already made. It would feel like being a copycat. Where's the beauty in that? That's just spinning a pretty phrase. And what if I did change it? What if I rewrote their memories? No it's too dangerous." Karen sighs and rubs her fingers over her face. "God this is depressing." Penny laughs. It's a rich sound that makes the restaurant seem a little brighter. Karen smiles in response.  
"Clearly," Penny says, signaling their waitress, "this calls for desert. When in gloom: chocolate." Karen can't protest to that. Penny confers with the waitress and orders a fancy chocolate dish that appears to have pudding and bits of brownie surrounded by hot fudge sauce. Karen winds up wiping the last of it up with her fingers. Penny leans back in her seat. Her hand rests lightly on her stomach,  
"That was delicious."  
" Karen finishes licking her fingers clean, “It was an inspired decision". They sit there in companionable silence. It's grown dark outside. Karen doesn't really want to go home and Penny has made no move to collect her sweater and leave. Actually, Karen's not sure how she would get home without Penny, since her car isn't here and she doesn't know the bus routes.  
"Do you-" Karen starts at the same time Penny asks, "Coffee?" Karen nods, happy to stay out, away from her pencil and notepad of old story ideas a little longer. 

Penny adds two sugars and cream to her coffee. Karen's going to be sleeping restlessly anyways and drinks hers black. Neither are decaf.  
"So, now that I'm retiring what will you do?" Karen asks.  
Penny frowns. "Are you so set on it?"  
"I think so. I can't think of away around the whole" Karen gestures unable to encompass murder and mind control and however else the power of writing someone’s entire life could be viewed. Penny sighs.  
"Well, then I guess I’ll go back to the agency. I'll tell them to find me someone new. You're not the only author with writers block. Though you're probably the most unique." Penny's voice is fond and Karen wonders suddenly if maybe they _are_ friends. None of her previous agents or representatives from the publisher, editors, or well, anyone in many, many years has taken her out to dinner. There was the nice professor who'd assisted Harold but he was well…he was a fan, and Karen's never gotten along well with fans. Karen chain smokes and can reach more than a pack a day when stressed. She spends time imagining ways to kill a man. She knows so, so many, suicides and car accidents and the improper time adjustment on a watch. Her mind isn't a morbid place, but often Karen wishes she wasn't in it. It's hard to hear from those who disagree. Well, not Penny, Penny doesn't seem to mind standing in the rain, beyond the obvious physical discomfort. Penny will sit close enough that, though Karen's still drenched, she could huddle under the umbrella should she want to. Penny and her sardonic eyebrow bring coffee uncalled for and offer stupid suggestions with ridiculous flash cards that make Karen want to shoot herself, but are perhaps, in some ways, effective.

"I'll be sad when you leave" Karen says, the extension of her train of thought. After the words are spoken she realizes that perhaps that was uncalled for. This is Penny's job. She's paid to be stolid, dependable, helpful, intimidating but also compassionate, eliciting friendship. Penny is here to cajole and coax and cheersquad a book to it's final page. "You were very helpful. I couldn't have done it without you." Karen says quickly. But of course, that's part of the problem. Penny almost let her kill a man. Penny would have submitted her best work to the publisher and Karen would have gone on writing graveyards until she was surrounded by headstones, all that blood on her hands and no way to know why. If not for Harold, wonderful, persistent Harold and his university professor.  
"I'll miss you too." Penny says. Karen can't tell if she's joking. Penny's face is the same as ever, a neutral expression that Karen isn't quite sure how to read. Karen clears her throat.  
"Thanks." Her chair gives an unpleasant scraping sound when she pushes herself up. Penny rises with ease, grabbing the receipt from where she's somehow already managed to pay for dinner. They walk to Penny's car in silence. The drive is filled by the quiet murmur of the BBC headlines. Karen wonders if this is what Penny always listens too. What destruction has visited the world today. The radio never said "Today Karen Eiffel, recluse author almost murdered Harold Krik. The author has previously killed ten other characters. She says that Harold has changed her. But has she really ended her murderous ways?" It's more what she'd expect on one of the bigfoot stalking magazines at the local corner store.  
"Do you think I really killed them?" Karen asks. "All the others?" It's suddenly important. She's intentionally not gone looking. She doesn't, didn't, want to know. But now.  
"You mean, was it just Harold?" Penny asks. Karen nods mute. Penny's hands are firm on the wheel, the proscribed position, ten and two. Her eyes flick from the road to Karen's face only briefly. "I don't know, but we can check." Penny pulls up outside of Karen's building. Karen takes care not to slam the car door and watches as Penny drives off into the night.

They spend the next few days pouring over Karen's past novels. They check names and birth dates, court records and social security numbers. Harold is reasonably confused when she calls him, but he understands quickly.  
"I'll check for you." He says, "Just give me the list of names." His voice is understanding and sad, but he smiles when she asks how he's doing. "I'm great and only getting better." He complains about crutches and Karen feels a headache coming on. "But, really, thank you. Worse things have happened to other people. I'm extremely lucky, and that's thanks to you." He sounds sincere. Karen quickly thanks him and hangs up. When she turns, Penny is standing in the doorway behind her. Karen collapses to the floor, legs folding with a thud.  
"I should seriously buy more furniture."  
Penny walks over to her but doesn't sit down. “What did Harold say?" Karen cranes her neck back to see Penny's face.  
"He's looking into it. If he comes up clean." Karen swallows, if they don't find them. So far it's been nothing. Maybe Harold is special. Maybe it's the typewriter. Maybe the pencil, the paper she used. Maybe somehow it was just this one time. She's innocent. She hasn't killed a man, or a woman, or a quietly sleeping baby. Karen feels it in her chest, the weight not yet relieved. Penny's legs are warm against her back. Karen leans against them, eyes on her hands. She's not going to cry. Not yet.

When the call from Harold comes, the relief is so potent Karen is afraid. It can't be true. It's too good to be true. Her fingers scrabble for a grip against the coffee table. Somehow she manages to stay standing.  
"None of them?"  
"Not a one." Harold says and Karen is uncertain if she'd have used that turn of phrase for him. It's distinctly his voice. It's not hers.  
"Thank you." She says. And then she is crying. Penny hangs up the phone for her and guides her too the wing-backed chair. Penny's hands are warm and steady on Karen's elbow. Karen thinks perhaps Penny is the most solid thing in the world. "Well." Karen wipes at her eyes, her voice attempting normality. "I guess then I don't have to give up writing forever." Penny's answering hug is unexpected but certainly not unwelcome. Karen's fingers grip Penny's round shoulders for one brief moment, then Penny stands up.  
"I'll tell the publisher she says." Karen nods.  
"Tell them I need a computer. It's about time I moved into the modern age. No typewriters. At least not that one." Penny doesn't say anything about peculiarity. Karen goes out for a long walk and a brief smoke. When she returns the typewriter is gone. The air inside feels cleaner, even if there's still smoke rattling in her lungs. The container of nicotine patches sits by the sink. Karen studies it. She places her box of cigarettes beside it, the two packages dueling it out on her countertop. She leaves them there.

Penny comes with Karen for laptop reconnaissance. Of course Karen insisted, because Penny knows far more about this than she does. Penny has worked with other authors, those not bound up in years of writers block. The store they go to is sleek and shiny. Karen spends as much time running her fingers over the astonishingly compact computers as she does actually considering her purchase. Penny picks out a model for her. Karen cannot see how it is better or worse than any of the others. She buys it. They're already out, and the mall has a lovely little Italian restaurant. Karen's never been there, but so far Penny's taste in restaurants has been excellent and Karen really doesn't get out much. The dinner is not precisely celebratory, but when Penny raises her wine glass in toast the bubbles in Karen's glass of Sprite fizzle of pleasure at good food and good company. Penny offers the wine but Karen still has to drive home.  
"I'll get started working on the book tomorrow!" Karen promises. Ideas are floating all around her. She could simply pluck them out of the air. It seems almost too much to imagine writing them down, finally.  
"That's good." Karen's not precisely disappointed that Penny doesn't share her excitement. Karen's head is brimming with words. "I look forward to reading what you come up with," Penny smiiles.  
"Yes." It's the simple truth. Karen has never enjoyed sharing her stories, rough drafts and poor grammar, unpolished beads and bits of thread assembled but far from a glittering whole. Penny is an exception. Penny has the intelligence to see where it will all go, to parse the pattern before her. They only worked on half a book, but from the way Penny reads ideas, Karen is sure this will be true.

They part after dinner and Karen drives home tapping her fingers against the wheel. She doesn't bother to take off her shoes. She's uncertain even if she's locked the door but the most important thing right now is to write. She does go double check the door when it turns out she needs to install software on her computer to allow it to run. She pours herself a small glass of sherry and finds comfy wool socks. She's changed into pajamas and a robe by the time the laptop is finally ready. Typing is infinitely easier. Karen starts writing.

It is perhaps a good thing that Penny has a key to get in. Karen is fairly certain no amount of pounding would have woken her. Her back is very sore and opening her eyes for a look at Penny's shoes first thing in the morning is at once embarrassing and highly amusing.  
"I take it you had an idea." Penny says. Karen pushes her self to sit up. The laptop is asleep in front of her. There are two note pads and various pieces of paper in an arc surrounding the space she'd slept. Karen wipes at her mouth. At least she didn't drool on the keyboard.  
"Yes. I had a bit of inspiration." Her yawn threatens to be jaw breaking. Karen groans when she stands her back protesting and popping in a very discomforting way. "Coffee."

Penny is a life saver, there is coffee and a muffin and the woman is a genius psychic. Karen sits at the counter in the kitchen chews quietly. She has most of a plot already. It's more of a structure, the limbs of a tree lacking all foliage or flower. A place to start. "So, I need to go to a strip club." Karen announces. Penny blinks.  
"Excuse me?"  
"A strip club." Karen repeats and gestures with the remaining half of the muffin. "For research."  
"You're writing about a stripper?" Penny expression isn't entirely scandalized, closer to curious perhaps.  
"After a fashion. I tried looking online, but I'm worried about the accuracy. I need to go myself." Karen downs the rest of her coffee. "I think I'll write the rest of the first chapter this morning. Whatever necessary can of course be added in. Do you know where I could find a reasonable strip club?"  
"I'm not sure what you'd define as reasonable." Penny's voice is wry, "but I'm sure we can find what you need. Congratulations on already having a chapter."  
"Mmm." Karen shrugs, "I used to be quite productive. Before I had to kill Harold I was writing...well I think three books in a year was my best but I often wrote things that never got published. I have a whole stack of them actually." Karen turns back toward her writing space, but stops. "This doesn't mean you'll leave and go foster other needy authors?" Karen asks.  
"No. I'll be staying here for a while at least. You may have a start but your reputation for productivity is infamous. Perhaps if you finish this book in a reasonable amount of time." Karen nods. She's a little surprised at the brief but intense pang of sadness at the thought of Penny leaving. Of course, she didn't always like Penny but perhaps Karen has come to appreciate her. Penny provides coffee and muffins and apparently also strip clubs. Karen balls up the muffin wrapper but misses the trash can when she throws it.

Karen is uncertain what one wears to a strip club. She would ask Penny but Penny isn't here. Karen has been insisting on an unreasonable amount of Penny's time. When they were trying to kill Harold, Penny's constant presence had been a necessity, and not one Karen appreciated. Now it only makes sense that Penny spend her days doing whatever it is she does when she doesn't have to keep an eye on recalcitrant authors. Karen decides that a nice shirt and black slacks are professional enough. When Penny arrives at 8pm Karen is ready with her notepad and pen.  
"You know, someday you're going to bite through that and get ink all over your mouth" Penny says. Karen stops chewing on the pen and clips it to the notepad instead.  
"I had a teacher in middle school who used to tell me that. It hasn't happened so far. So, where are we going?"  
"You could have looked into that yourself." Penny points out.  
"I'm not an expert researcher here to further authors with writers block to new heights of literary grandeur."  
"That is the most ridiculous excuse I've ever heard." Karen smiles and Penny sighs gesturing out the door. "Your car awaits."

The night probably should be intensely awkward, but Penny is as unruffled as ever and Karen spends the whole time taking notes, and chewing on her pen, thinking. They probably make the patrons nervous under Karen's scrutiny. There aren't many other women at this establishment and those there are seem to be working. Penny orders a beer and buffs her nails, unperturbed by goings on around her. When they finally leave Karen is practically buzzing with ideas.  
"It's utterly fascinating. Perhaps I should try and arrange an appointment to talk to one of the girls. Did you see that thing she did? Really I never imagined people could be so flexible. I finally understand why so many murder mysteries involve strip clubs." Penny's laughter interrupts Karen's flow. Karen looks over at her.  
"What?"  
"Sometimes I'm not sure if you're crazy, but I am glad I met you Karen Eiffel." The sentiment makes Karen feel warm. This is what friendship is about.  
"The lights green."

Karen spends two days in a writing stupor. Penny pesters her with food and eventually Karen acquiesces, but only to type with one hand and eat with the other. Somewhere in day two Karen's so exhausted she falls asleep in her chair. She wakes up with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a note reading, "go to bed" sitting on her laptop. Karen does. When she wakes up in the morning, Penny is there and has made coffee.  
"How's the book?" She asks.  
"Almost done."  
"Does that mean you'll take breaks to keep yourself from starving?"  
"Probably." Karen stretches, even after sleeping in bed, her back feels horrible from sitting and writing for so long. "Actually today I think I might go take a walk in the park. Mustn't let the mind get stagnate."  
"Good. Do you want to give me what you've got already? I'm headed in to the office this afternoon anyways." Karen considers.  
"No, I think I have some bits to alter still."  
Penny nods and leaves.

The park is lovely and green. It's a warm day. Possibly too warm to really want to be outside, but Karen walks in the shade and watches children playing on the jungle gym. It doesn't give her any new ideas but jungle gyms aren't really pertinent to her new novel. The fresh air is nice though, even if Karen is sweating a little by the time she turns back for home. Her living room is blessedly cool after the heat outside and Karen opens her laptop, flexing her fingers. It's wonderful when she can just drop into the flow of writing. The latest idea waiting to be opened up into new twists and turns, crafting the future and melding each character just so that it all fit.

Penny drops in again in the evening.  
"Just wanted to make sure you actually went to bed." Penny eyes the ashtray with distaste. Karen's smoked less than a pack today. Really, it is an improvement.  
"Mmm, yes I do intend to. You'd make a wonderful mother someday." If Penny were a little less dignified, Karen thinks she'd roll her eyes.  
"I think one author is enough for me, thanks. How's the book coming?"  
"Well." Karen stares at the curser on the screen. It blinks at her. "Or mostly well. I know where I'm going, but," she taps a finger against her lips. "The wording's just not right."  
"Do you want to run it by me?" Penny asks, pulling over the other chair so she's sitting looking at Karen.  
"Hmm...If someone said, 'You don't know how long I've dreamt of the smell of your cunt against my lips', what would you think?" Penny blinks at her. "What, I haven't done this kind of thing in quite a while. I can't seem to remember how it goes. It all feels so dry."  
Penny clears her throat, "If someone told me You don't know how long I've dreamt of the smell of your cunt against my lips." Karen nods because, yes that's it. Somehow Penny's voice makes it sound much more realistic.  
"Yes exactly. You'd say?"  
"Well I think it'd depend on the context."  
"Right, well you're a stripper, the man talking to you is your best friend's father. Your best friend is in hiding because she's discovered proof her mother, the man's ex wife, committed a murder. Your friend’s father used to be a PI until his license was revoked while working on the case of murder his ex wife committed. You've been pretending to help him find his daughter, but really you're keeping him off track until she can safely secure the evidence and come out of hiding without fear of her mother's retribution."  
"In that case I guess I would say, 'And here I thought you'd never ask. I've seen the way you look at me, when I'm out there onstage. I can see you imagining it, my cunt wrapped tight around your cock. Did you think I didn't know?'." Karen types Penny's words,  
"Yes, that sounds a lot better than what I had in my head. Of course she'd want to use the situation to distract him. Not that she'll actually go to bed with him, but if he thinks she's...yes, that's exactly it!"  
"So what's his reply?" Penny asks. Her voice is low, a little rough. Karen looks up.  
"Well, I hadn't- Probably something like 'You create the most sinful images. You know I would. Pin you to the wall and rip your clothes off, close my mouth around those pert little breasts of yours take you right here. That is if I could stand without falling over.' You see he's really quite a bit drunk right now, so maybe he's a little less eloquent." Penny's eyes still haven't left Karen's, their gazes locked. Karen think she should probably write that last sentence down, and with a bit more description, the alcohol soaked quality of his voice, the pulse of the music from the club. They are of course in an employees only hallway. The smell of cigarette smoke and the feeling of how hard he is in his jeans. How this nymph before him, his daughters best friend, is suddenly the most desirable thing he's ever seen. But Karen's fingers are still against the keys because the air is far too close.  
"That doesn't sound too hokey right?"  
"No."  
"That's good, I feel a bit of an idiot, I mean do people really talk like that? I sound so-"  
"Do you know how long I've dreamt about the smell of your cunt against my lips." Penny's voice is growling low in the room. It hit's Karen like a physical thing and her fingers tighten against the keyboard. There's a stupid mash of letters on the screen but Karen doesn't have the mind to spare for them. Karen swallows.  
"Well yes." Karen says weekly.  
"I would, you know," Penny continues, leaning forward in her chair, towards Karen, "Pin you to the wall and rip your clothes off. Close my mouth around those pert little breast of yours. Take you right here." The hitch in Karen's breath is loud in the quiet of the room.  
"You would?" she asks, barely above a whisper. Penny smiles, stands up out of her chair, offering a hand to Karen.  
"I would" she answers.

The novel is written by the end of the week. Karen knows it's going to be a best seller. Not her typical work for sure, "Much sexier" Penny says. Karen doesn't feel the need to disagree. She's off the failing authors list, and Penny's getting a new assignment, but she still has keys to Karen's apartment and there's more than enough space for the two of them.


End file.
